


How to re-gift fruitcake and other tips for surviving the holidays

by museaway



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Christmas, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Neighbors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 16:24:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5504609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/pseuds/museaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The saying goes you should “love thy neighbor,” but Castiel Novak was the neighbor from Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to re-gift fruitcake and other tips for surviving the holidays

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a 1k tumblr fic. Oops. 
> 
> Prompt from nubpher: Dean and Cas as next-door-neighbors who hate each other getting into a Nice-Off for the holidays.
> 
> Cas's profession is my dad's profession, and what he says about it my dad's experience. I grew up riding along to the hospital when he was on call. :-D 
> 
> Beta read by kristsune, tragidean, and teacass ♥

Castiel Novak was the neighbor from Hell. Not a week after he moved into the adjacent three-bedroom house, he stood at Dean’s front door with an envelope in his hand and a surly expression.

“This was delivered to me by mistake,” he said, sounding as windswept as he appeared in a rumpled overcoat and backwards tie.

Having thanked him and in the interest of being friendly, Dean invited him in for a beer. Castiel looked like he could use one. Probably had a boring office job, judging by the suit and the fatigued cast to his eyes. He might even be good looking, if Dean could get him to relax. But Castiel shook his head and strode to the sidewalk, calling back over his shoulder, “You should remove those branches from the curb. You’re going to be cited by the city.”

“Nice meeting you,” Dean muttered and threw the credit card offer into the trash.

A couple weeks later, Dean was up early to rake the lawn and give it a final mow before the first snowfall. He had one more pass to make when he noticed Castiel glaring at him over the fence in the same overcoat and pajamas. Dean idled the mower.

“What?” he shouted.

“It’s seven in the morning.”

“So?”

“I was sleeping.”

“Buddy, invest in some earplugs.”

Dean winked at the seething look Castiel shot at him. Later that afternoon he found a highlighted neighborhood ordinance taped to his front door that prohibited mowing the lawn before 9am on a Sunday. Dick. Dean tore the ordinance to ribbons and sprinkled them over the fence onto Castiel’s dying roses.

But what _really_ set him off was that Castiel started feeding stray cats after the first freeze of the season, and those cats set up camp under Dean’s front porch. The first time one howled outside his window at 4am, he threw the sheets off the bed and grabbed a crowbar, thinking his house had been invaded by a demonic infant. He tacked lattice under the deck, hoping it would deter them, but they simply moved operations to the bushes under his bedroom window and kept up their nightly antics.

Dean hadn’t gotten a full night of sleep in a week because of those damned cats, and it was all Castiel Novak’s fault. His concentration suffered at work, his mood souring. He was in such foul spirits that his dad sent him home from the shop before five, ordering him to work it out over the weekend.

Castiel’s crappy Mark V idled at the curb when Dean pulled into his driveway. On the way to the mailbox, he decided that he was going to say something. He was going to grab Castiel Novak by the lapels of that ugly coat and—

“Hello, Dean.”

Dammit. Castiel had pulled in front of Dean’s driveway and rolled down his window. Dean took a breath and grit his teeth.

“Hey.”

He pulled out the mail and flipped through it, hoping Castiel would take the hint that Dean wasn’t interested in his opinion on the length of his lawn, or whether his shutters were a neighborhood-approved color, but no dice.

“Are you looking forward to the holidays?” Castiel asked. Nicely. Trying to trap Dean with polite conversation before dropping some truth bomb, no doubt.

“I guess,” Dean said without looking at him. “Got a week to get my shopping done.”

“I finished my shopping already.” Of course he did. “This came for you. It was in my mailbox.” Castiel held out an envelope marked with Jess’s loopy handwriting.

“My sister-in-law,” Dean explained when he noticed Castiel staring.

The fight had gone out of him. All he wanted right now was to sleep. He put the letter on top of his pile of mail and caught Castiel’s eye. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Merry Christmas, Dean.”

He rolled up the window without another word.

#

The abrupt shift in Castiel’s attitude bugged him.

He thought about it all evening: while he stabbed at his dinner, while he folded a load of laundry and listened to a rerun of _Dr. Sexy MD_. He thought about it over a beer while he surfed the internet. What the hell was Castiel playing at? Dean was sure he hadn’t misjudged him, but he’d be damned if he was the one who looked like an asshole at Christmas.

He threw on a coat and trudged next door with a fruitcake Ash had given him. Seemed appropriate. The stuff looked okay, but you never knew what was baked inside. He left it on Castiel’s porch with a post-it note. _Merry Christmas - Dean._

There. No way Castiel could call Dean a jackass now.

He slept well that weekend in spite of the cats.

_#_

Monday morning, when he left for work, Dean spotted one of the cats sniffing at a bag swinging from his doorknob. He shooed the cat away and peered in the bag. It contained a red plate of sugar cookies—homemade. Castiel hadn’t gone the route of traditional holiday shapes. The cookies were evenly round and fat, sprinkled with sugar and bits of pistachios. He’d even included a proper Christmas card and thanked Dean for the fruitcake.

“Dammit,” Dean cursed, dunking one in his coffee at work. Of _course_ they were delicious.

It snowed that afternoon: tiny, abundant flakes that fell for hours at a time, blowing along the curbs and accumulating at the corners of the shop’s windows before it finally stuck to the street. It took Dean ten minutes to brush off the Impala after work, making it good and dark when he got home. They hadn’t plowed his street yet.

He pulled out the snowblower and took care of the driveway, then cleared a path on the sidewalk to his mailbox. He paused to wipe his forehead. Castiel’s lights were off. There were no tracks in the snow on his driveway, which meant he was still at work.

Manual labor had to trump cookies.

It didn’t take long to clear Castiel’s short driveway. Satisfied they were even, Dean parked his ass on the sofa—beer in hand, pizza in the oven, the rest of Castiel’s cookies on the table, and a _Die Hard_ marathon on Spike. Perfect.

#

He saw the yellow paper, tucked into the front door, when he was halfway down the driveway the next morning. Dean threw the car into park and jogged up, thinking it might be a missed delivery slip, but it was a handwritten note on the same yellow-lined paper Sam kept around his law office.

_Thank you for clearing my driveway. Yours was plowed in this morning, so I took the liberty of shoveling it. - CN_

So...Castiel had shoveled Dean’s driveway by hand before going to work, then went home and wrote a note to that effect so Dean would notice his handiwork? What a dick.

When Dean saw him eight hours later, standing on a chair on his front porch, both arms tangled in a string of white lights, he thought about letting the dumb sonofabitch fall and break his neck. But Mary Winchester hadn’t raised her boys to be cruel.

Castiel’s porch was larger than Dean’s but devoid of furniture. He’d hung a plain wreath on the front door. There were unopened boxes of lights on the railing. Clearing his throat, Dean walked up the steps.

“You need a hand?”

The chair Castiel stood on was beat up, probably picked up second hand. Castiel didn’t look the type to be rough on his furniture. He didn’t even wear proper clothing for household chores, still in a suit and black leather shoes from work. His tie was red and on straight today. Sighing, Castiel lowered his arms.

“I don’t know why I decided this was a good idea.”

The chair wobbled beneath him. Dean automatically thrust out a hand to steady it, holding onto the back until Castiel had climbed down.

“You know it’s below freezing,” Dean said, noticing Castiel’s bare hands.

Castiel blew into his palms and rubbed them together, appearing ridiculous in the tangle of lights. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Dean snorted and untangled him, ignoring the constipated look on Castiel’s face. He peeled off his own gloves and thrust them at Castiel, but Castiel didn’t immediately take them. Dean cleared his throat. With a frown, Castiel put them on and cupped his hands together, flexing his fingers against his sternum.

“Thank you.”

Dean felt smug that Castiel wouldn’t look him in the eye. He wound the string of lights around his hand and elbow, with every intent of setting them on the chair and leaving Castiel to his devices, but something made him squint up at the light clips Castiel had already put in place.

What the hell. He’d had plans to get his shopping done tonight, but he could hit the stores tomorrow, and this would definitely release him from any obligation Castiel’s shoveling had created. He ran home for his step ladder.

#

“Have you considered doing this professionally?” Castiel asked, rubbing his arms as he surveyed Dean’s handiwork from the front yard. White icicle lights hung along the front and sides of Castiel’s porch, and Dean had discovered a battery-operated string in the mess that lit the wreath on the front door.

“I do the shop window every year.” Dean folded the stepladder and tucked it under his arm.

“Not your own house?”

“No point. It’s just me. How come you bothered?”

“I thought it would be cheerful,” Castiel said. “Coming home to a dark house can be...overwhelming. Especially at the holidays.”

“You got family?”

“Not nearby.”

“That's too bad.” Dean smiled at Castiel for a beat and drummed his fingers against his thigh. Castiel still had his gloves. He seemed to realize this at the same time, pulling them off by the fingertip. He held them out with a sheepish look.

“Thank you for your help. I’d invite you in, but I have some things I need to take care of.”

“I gotta get back anyway.” Dean didn't bother to wave, just started down the stairs at Castiel’s dismissal. “Later.”

#

Dean got a weird satisfaction from seeing Castiel’s porch lit up the next evening when he got home from Christmas shopping a little past eight. His back seat was covered in plastic bags and a huge box containing a purple and blue Frozen Jeep PowerWheels. Jess said nothing too big; they had too many toys clogging the house already, but nothing was too good for Dean’s niece.

He lugged the bags inside first: an angel pendant for mom, a charcoal pullover and new floor mats for dad. He’d picked out red gloves and a scarf for Jess, who was always cold since she and Sam relocated from Stanford. The long, thin box blocking his view out the back window contained a crate for the puppy Sam didn’t know about yet. (That kid had lucked out when he’d met Jess.)

Dean was fighting to get the box through the car door when he heard the crunch of footsteps in the driveway. Castiel, hands thrust in the pockets of his tan overcoat, walked up to his side.

“Would you like help?”

Dammit. He knew he’d gone overboard helping with the lights yesterday. But these boxes were a pain in the ass, so Dean took the offer. “Thanks, man.”

With two pairs of hands, they dislodged both boxes and got them inside. Castiel, seemingly in no hurry to leave, closed the door. He glanced around the small entry, running a hand over the evergreen garland Dean had wound up the staircase, eyes falling on the zinc sprig of mistletoe Dean had hung ironically in the doorway to the family room. Dean took off his coat, throwing it on a chair with the mail, and gestured down the hall toward the kitchen.

“Beer?”

He assumed Castiel would reject him, the way he’d rejected Dean’s first offer months ago and made that lame excuse about being busy last night. Dean marked his recent cordiality down to holiday spirit and an aggressive attempt to avoid being indebted to anyone. But Castiel didn’t move toward the door, fixated on the mistletoe, and quietly sighed.

To Dean’s surprise, he took off his coat. Dean got two beers from the fridge and they sat at the kitchen table.

“What breed of dog are you getting?” Castiel asked after an awkward silence. The question made Dean laugh and shake his head.

“The crate’s for my brother and his wife. They’re getting a retriever or something. I don’t have the best lifestyle for a dog.”

Dean could’ve sworn Castiel’s mouth twitched, although his face was otherwise impassive. “Commitment issues?”

“I work a lot.”

“What do you do?”

For all the months they’d lived next door to one another, they’d never run through the standard getting-to-know-you questions. They’d skipped right to hostile encounters. Dean propped his elbows on the edge of the table and brought the beer to his lips.

“I’m a mechanic.” He waited a few seconds, steeling himself for a negative reaction, but got nothing but a blink. “Uh. What about you?”

“I’m a physician.”

“No shit. What kind?”

Castiel sighed. “Pathologist. And before you ask, I don’t perform nearly as many postmortems as the media would have you believe.”

Dean wasn’t sure if the way his heart picked up was horror or arousal. The idea of a morgue made Dean want to crawl out of his skin, but the image of Castiel in a lab coat cast him in a new light.

“You actually do that?” Dean asked, taking a long sip. He zipped a finger down his sternum, miming an incision. Castiel chuckled.

“I have, yes.”

“Huh. How’re the hours?”

“A regular workday. I’m on call some evenings and one weekend a month.”

“You ever wear cowboy boots?” Dean asked. Castiel scowled and shook his head.

“No. Why?”

“It’s from a TV show. Guess you haven’t seen it.”

“I don’t own a TV.”

They lapsed into silence for a while. Castiel tapped the side of the bottle. In the time it took Dean to finish his beer, Castiel only took a few sips, but his posture was relaxed. He sat forward in his seat, shoulders slightly rounded, mouth soft. He smiled at Dean and ducked his head.

“I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this.”

“Drinking? We can work on that.”

“Socializing. I grew up in a very large family, overshadowed by accomplished older siblings, and was privately schooled. I don’t know how to interact with people. I think I come across wrong.”

“Friendly tip?” Dean said. Widening his eyes, Castiel leaned further over the table and nodded once. “It’s the shit you say to people.”

“Such as?”

“When we met?” Dean wagged a finger between them. “You told me I was gonna be cited by the city for yard waste.”

Castiel appeared baffled. He blinked several times and fidgeted with his tie, a green one today, pulling it to the side in a manner that twisted it backwards.

“I—I was trying to be helpful. I’d just received a similar notice. I didn’t want you to have the same issue.”

“Just say that next time. And don’t tape ordinances to my door, man.”

“I’m sorry. I’d just worked through the night and wasn’t thinking. That was rude of me.”

“I shoulda stopped mowing when you said something.” Dean sniffed and scratched the surface of the table where the laminate peeled back at the edge. “I will next time.”

“I appreciate it.”

Castiel looked at him and Dean looked back. Neither of them spoke for half a minute. When someone looked at Dean as long as Castiel was now, it usually meant he was getting laid, but there wasn’t hunger in Castiel’s eyes. He wasn’t looking at Dean with lust—not now anyway. It was gratitude, maybe fondness.

Dean’s stomach picked that instant to growl. He put a hand on it in apology, observing the way Castiel’s face slid back into a neutral mask and he pushed back from the table.

“I should let you get on with your evening.” He carried his beer to the sink and set it on the counter.

For the first time since Castiel Novak moved next door earlier that summer, Dean wasn’t ready for him to go. He opened the freezer door to display a legion of frozen pizzas.

“How do you feel about pepperoni?”

Castiel licked his lips and studied Dean’s face for a beat, as though he expected him to renege on the offer. “I like it,” he said carefully.

Dean pre-heated the oven and got himself a second round.

#

They settled in with a Bond movie. There were seasonally appropriate selections on TV, but Castiel had never _seen_ a Bond film, and Dean considered it his civic duty to introduce him to a decent one.

“Is James Bond bisexual?” Castiel asked, canting his head when the film’s villain propositioned him.

“I hope so,” Dean said. Benny and Victor usually laughed when Dean made quips like that, but Castiel fell quiet. Maybe he’d been offended. But Dean didn’t take it back. He’d spent enough years steeping in self-loathing, and anyone with eyes could see Daniel Craig was objectively attractive.

Castiel asked a few more questions, but they never returned to the question of sexuality. He appeared to enjoy himself as much as Dean, though. They ate the whole pizza and went through a six-pack. Castiel’s cheeks had taken on a faintly pink hue and Dean caught himself staring a few times, distracted by Castiel’s strong profile, the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed.

Dean conked out before the film ended and woke up to the sound of cats hissing. The lights and television were off. Dean was covered to the chest in a throw that had been folded over the back of the couch. Castiel must have draped it over him before going home. The note he’d left on the table was two lines long: _Thanks for dinner_ and a phone number.

Dean pounded on the window to startle the cats and entered Castiel’s number in his phone. It was good to have for emergencies, and Castiel wasn’t so bad. Weird, definitely, but not as awful as Dean had let himself believe. He messaged him so Castiel would have his number in return and got a thumbs-up emoji in reply. For some reason, it made Dean chuckle. He got undressed for bed, trying to remember another evening he’d enjoyed that much. It had been a while. Years, maybe.

#

Three days before Christmas, Castiel texted to ask if Dean would help him buy a tree. Dean offered to drive, suggesting they head to Strawberry Hill farm, check out what inventory they had left, but Cas pointed him in the direction of the Home Depot.

“I can’t believe you want to put this plastic piece of junk in your living room,” Dean said, staring at a pre-lit abomination blinking in a cloud of fake snow.

“I don’t like killing trees,” Castiel said. He pointed to a seven-foot Noble fir with 500 pre-strung lights. “This one’s nice.”

“It looks like astroturf.”

“Fine.” Castiel moved down the row of trees and pointed to another one, slightly taller. “This has sculpted needles.”

“It’s plastic.”

Castiel bought it and they somehow got the box from the store into the car, and from the car into Castiel’s house.

“Make yourself at home,” he said, disappearing down the hallway, ostensibly to his bedroom. Dean poked through the refrigerator and the bookshelf. Castiel found him with a ginger ale, thumbing through a worn copy of _Good Omens_.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

He made spaghetti. Dean sliced open the box and assembled the tree stand, fit the tree’s three sections together and connected the power cords. The tree was too symmetrical to be real, but with the lights on it wasn’t half bad. They ate staring at it, on Castiel’s hand-me-down couch, plates on their knees because he didn’t even own a coffee table yet.

He touched Dean’s arm just inside the front door, when Dean was getting ready to leave. His heart jumped into his throat at the contact, something he hadn’t realized he wanted from Castiel until this moment.

Castiel thanked him sincerely, squeezing his shoulder a little too hard. Dean slapped him on the back and escaped outside where he could blame his reddened face on the cold.

#

Bobby closed the shop early on Christmas Eve and bellowed at everyone to go home just after lunch. Dean used the extra time to finish wrapping the gifts for his parents and Sam’s family. He dragged everything to his car and fit them together in the back seat.

He could head over to his parents’ now. Mom could probably use a hand in the kitchen, but it would also give her extra time to grill Dean about his personal life, which got sadder every year since he’d hit thirty. He made coffee and flipped through parts catalogs to kill an hour, looking up when Castiel drove past and pulled into his driveway. Dean glanced at his phone in the center of the table.

He headed to his folks’ place at five, in time to roll out the pie crust. Dad had holiday music playing, the same CD he’d played every Christmas since Dean could remember. He hummed along under his breath, fingers working the edge of the dough into a neat crimp.

“Is your neighbor still causing trouble?” mom asked, cutting vents in the pie crust.

“Cas?” Dean said, surprising himself with the nickname. He slid the pie into the oven and shut the door. “He’s not so bad.”

Mom saved the probing questions for dinner. Dean avoided answering by keeping his mouth stuffed and making faces at his three-year-old niece, Cameron, who squealed when she opened the PowerWheels and rammed it into every wall on the first-floor of the house.

“Thanks, Dean,” Sam said with a tight smile. It eased as soon as he unwrapped the dog crate and whipped his head up to look at Jess, who hid her laughter in her hand and hugged him. Mom recorded the excitement.

She sent the video along with a message thanking him for coming over. He watched it a couple times when he got home, laughing at the way Sam’s expression morphed from confused to overjoyed, then turned on to _A Christmas Story_ on TBS. He kicked off his shoes and put his feet up. Castiel’s porch was lit up, visible through Dean’s side window. Castiel probably hadn’t seen this movie either. It was stupid for them to be sitting alone in separate houses when Dean had more beer in the fridge.

Castiel didn’t reply to the text Dean sent inviting him over, but the doorbell rang three minutes later. He held up a plate of his sugar cookies and the fruitcake Dean had offloaded on him.

“I’m on call,” he said, out of breath, as though he’d run through the snow. “I can’t drink.”

But they ate themselves sick on cookies and even sliced into the fruitcake, which Dean admitted was made by his co-worker.

“This is _regifted_ fruitcake?” Castiel asked, a quirk in the corner of his mouth betraying his frown.

“I’ll make you a pie for New Year’s,” Dean promised, grinning. He felt warm all over, his face hot, but it wasn’t from embarrassment. His heart beat steady and fast. They touched at the shoulder and occasionally the knee when Dean laughed and widened his legs. This wasn’t normal behavior between friends—he supposed they were friends now—but nothing had been normal about them since the day they met. He certainly didn’t mind. Sex was fun and easy to come by, but it wasn’t often he spent time with someone who was content to just sit with him.

He made coffee to keep Castiel awake, elbowing him during the movie’s funny bits. Eventually, Castiel put a hand on Dean’s arm—gently, like he was testing whether it was allowed. Whether Dean would shrug him off. When he didn’t, Castiel slid his hand along Dean’s forearm to trace the veins on the top of his hand. He didn’t take his eyes off of the television, held himself stiffly and swallowed hard. Dean caught a whiff of musky vanilla cologne and didn’t breathe for a moment. His skin tingled everywhere Castiel touched him.

A phone rang. Castiel took his hand away and went into the front hall to answer. Dean fought down his disappointment when he saw Castiel pick up his coat and drape it over his forearm.

“You gotta go?” Dean asked.

Castiel nodded and bent down to put on his boots. “I’m sorry. Thank you, this was…” He exhaled through a smile. “Thank you.”

Dean shuffled into the front hall. “Y’know, the movie’s on all night. You can come back.”

Castiel buttoned his coat. Glancing to the sprig of mistletoe overhead, he darted up to kiss Dean’s cheek. “I’ll text you when I’m finished. I might be a while.”

“I stay up late.”

It was snowing, becoming thick on the window sills. Everything outside was white. Dean kept the porch light on and listened for the snow plows to roar and rattle past. The movie played one-and-a-half times, and Dean was yawning steadily when his phone lit up with a text message saying Castiel was just leaving the hospital.

Twenty minutes later, they were curled up under the same blanket, Castiel’s head on Dean’s shoulder. He’d borrowed Dean’s phone charger and a pair of sweatpants and had fallen asleep minutes after he sat down. Dean watched the TV on low for a while, distracted by Castiel’s breath through his shirt, the comfortable weight of him against Dean’s side. His watch beeped midnight and he stopped struggling to keep his eyes open.

#

It took a few seconds after waking up in the living room for Dean to remember why he’d slept on the couch, why someone was lying on top of him, to identify the source of the barking: the movie was still playing, and the Bumpuses’ hounds had just made off with the old man’s turkey.

It was light out, the position of the sun through the windows telling Dean it had to be around seven. His back was stiff, but he couldn’t get up without disturbing Castiel. He lay still for a while, until Castiel made a soft noise in his throat and stretched, hiding his face in Dean’s shirt.

“Hey,” Dean said, winding his arms around Castiel’s back. “Merry Christmas.”

Castiel grunted in reply, not a morning person. That day in the yard wasn’t a fluke. In a few minutes, Dean would get up and make coffee, but he was relaxed, in no hurry to move. This should be awkward. Dean was half-hard against Castiel’s stomach, and Castiel was hard against Dean’s thigh. They’d only sort-of kissed once, just days after Dean discovered he didn’t actually despise Castiel. He should be itching for an excuse to bolt, not wondering if Castiel had the day off, so they could do this some more.

“Sleep okay?”

Castiel nodded against Dean’s chest, nuzzling into his hand, and maybe he was a mind reader, because he lifted his head just enough to press his lips, slack and lazy, to Dean’s. It wasn’t heated, but tender. Fond. The sort of kiss that was missing from his life. They held that way, breathing each other in, Dean’s fingers wound through Castiel’s hair and a fluttering beneath his ribs.

There was a sudden terrible screech just below the window, so loud that Dean jumped, thinking that cats had finally tunneled their way through the exterior wall.

“Those friggin’ cats,” Dean complained when he was sure they weren’t surrounded. Castiel chuckled into his neck and mouthed a damp trail back to Dean’s lips, kissing him more sensuously this time. His smile was triumphant.

“I’ll buy you earplugs.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas to those of you who celebrate & best wishes for a great 2016 ♥


End file.
